‘Forget it. I can’t swim. Anyway, I’m scared of water. Oh look, Stefan! There’s a boat heading here; at last – food. Do you think it’s him; her betrothed? What did Roza call him, Valerik?’ I tried to get a better look, but he was still too far away.
‘I’ve no idea. Shall we go back to Vodopad?’
‘Could we? I wonder what he’s delivering.’
We listened to the boat spluttering its way up-river and getting closer. ‘It’s a wonder it doesn’t sink,’ Stefan said. ‘Is there anything in Russia that isn’t decrepit?’
When we arrived at the shop, Szefczuk was already helping him unload. Valerik was tall and ugly, his bearded face swarthy – nowhere near as good-looking as Karol. He was ancient too, about forty years of age, and I wondered what Natasha saw in him – or perhaps she didn’t. Ugh, imagine kissing something like that!
The boatman dragged a barrel down the plank, and between them he and Szefczuk shuffled it into the shop.
‘Oh God, not more stinking fish.’
He returned to the boat, and threw six bundles of fufaikas onto the riverbank, followed by other provisions in sacks.
‘We need food,’ I said. ‘Why doesn’t he bring us something nice to eat?’
‘No, this is excellent. People also need clothes; I need a jacket. Some haven’t any proper boots. You could earn some decent money if you made valenki for this lot.’
‘We haven’t enough fabric.’
‘They would have to bring their own. Come on, hurry. We need to alert our families to be first in the queue. Seriously, there’s one redeeming factor about this camp – Kommendant Ivanov allows people to make money aside of work – like the couple who dig out the shit pits, and the girl who takes the post to Kholmogorki. He has the right attitude.’
‘Only because he hopes to keep us here until we all drop. Anyway, that couple only collect the poo because they want to nourish their allotment so they can grow the biggest spuds.’
‘Yes, but each shack pays them to get rid of it. Don’t you see – they’re making money? Do you suppose Valerik will stay overnight at Natasha’s place? She won’t be expecting him. Should we warn her; otherwise he might catch her with Karol?’
‘No, Stefan, we mustn’t. You promised.’
‘Karol’s got to find out sometime. Wouldn’t it be kinder to put him out of his misery?’
‘No! It would not! Let’s see how Natasha gets herself out of this one; she should have been honest with him from the start.’
The sounds of ‘Hey Sokolyi’ greeted us when we arrived on the steps to our shack. ‘Oh dear, Karol’s home.’
‘I wonder if Natasha’s with him?’
‘I doubt it. This is Karol’s attempt to cheer himself up. He always plays it when he’s got something on his mind. I bet she’s dumped him.’
The entire family were sitting around the stove, but there was no Natasha. Karol put down his accordion.
‘Marishu come and sit down, you too, Stefan. We have terrible news,’ Mother said. ‘Smirnov’s not long left. They are transferring your father to the saw mills at Permilovo. He leaves tomorrow.’
I was on a different wave length, expecting Karol to be heartbroken. ‘What? Samoded-Permilovo?’
Stefan nudged me in the ribs.
‘Why, do you know where it is?’ Lodzia asked.
‘Nothing other than the train passed through it on our way here. How far is it?’
‘Thirty kilometres south of here,’ Gerhard said. ‘Smirnov’s been doing the rounds looking for someone who’s good with their hands. Someone good at fixing things.’
‘And your father had to pipe up he was.’ Mother shook her head at his stupidity.
In his own defence, Father said, ‘I know, but I thought he wanted someone to help at the Artel.’ He turned to Stefan, seeking support. ‘Your father’s always snowed under with work; perhaps he could put in a kind word for me?’
‘Can’t you get out of it?’
‘No, lad, I leave in the morning. A guard will deliver me there, but then I have to walk back if I want to get home. None of us Poles are allowed to use the train.’
‘What are we going to do?’ Mother cried. ‘It’s so far away. Your father will only be able to come home once a month. How will he manage without us?’
‘I’m worried how you will manage without me!’
This was not at all what I was expecting to hear – Smirnov breaking up our family. How would we know if Tatta fell ill? Who would wash his clothes or queue for his bread?
Father said, ‘Permilovo’s too far to walk there and back in a day. I wouldn’t even have time to eat and visit the banya. But if I worked non-stop each weekend, and saved up my free Sundays, I could make the journey once a month, spend two days here with you, and walk back. That way I could pick up a fresh change of clothes and make sure you had enough money to buy food.’
It was only later after Stefan went home; I thought to ask. ‘Aren’t you seeing Natasha tonight, Karol?’
Was it only four weeks since Tatta left for Permilovo? The place seemed so empty without him here. I knew Mama was getting worried because we had run out of money and were relying only on Gerhard and Karol’s wages, which never stretched far.
‘How much did you get?’ I asked Lodzia when she returned from the Ukrainian quarter after selling my box of watercolours and brushes. There was always something they fancied or needed. Tatta told me it was a waste of time bartering. Since the Soviets devalued the Zloty, the Polish currency was almost worthless.
‘Ten kopeks.’
‘Is that all! I would have been better off keeping them.’
‘Why? You haven’t any paper, so what’s the point – you will never use them.’
Worse, Mother told me the one-year-old son of our neighbour, Alfred and Lucia Powiecki, just died. I wondered if the ground was yet soft enough to bury him; what happened to my compassion? And what of Sasha’s little boy – and Oleszkiewicz’s child; then the other five children, all dead in quick succession, never mind the grownups. No one ever seemed to die in Poland, but here death seemed akin to the June fruit drop.
Icicles like the swords of Damocles hung from our cabin roof. They were dripping faster now and the low arc of the sun began to melt the snowy blankets on neighbouring roofs, honeycombing the upper crusts before it dipped below the horizon and everything froze again when darkness fell. Mama told me to be ultra-vigilant when passing the shacks not to get a spike in my head or get buried beneath an avalanche.
Thank God Tatta is due home today, I thought. I missed him so much; the place wasn’t the same without him. Krystyna was unwell, and the day yawned ahead until Stefan came to collect me this evening.
I slumped onto the slats with my atlas, and my fingers retraced the route home. I revisited the haunts of my past, and my heart was sick for losing it all. Tatta told me to have hope. ‘No war lasts forever,’ he said. However, being trapped in a place like this, it was easy to say and much harder to endure.
He still hadn’t returned at seven-thirty, and everyone sat around looking worried until Stefan arrived.
‘Some months have five weeks,’ he reminded us. ‘Are you sure he didn’t mean that – instead of returning every fourth week?’
Mother said, ‘I remember him saying, ‘I’ll come home once a month.’
‘So do I,’ Lodzia affirmed. ‘I remember it.’
‘So where is he?’
Stefan said, ‘Which route would he take – the way they brought us from Kholmogorki station – or through the Kenga forests?’ He and I exchanged swift glances. ‘I mean, I think I heard one of the Ukrainians mention there’s a quicker route.’